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Memorial to Fallen Riders and Loved Ones


In Loving Memory of Gregory Thomas Brown

Our friend and beloved Gregory Thomas Brown lost his life Saturday June 18th, 2005 in a motorcycle accident at Broadway and Pantano.  He is survived by his wife Sara Brown and 16 month old daughter Trinity Lynn Brown, his mother Sheila Renee Youngblood, father Michael Brown, brother Perry and Pirate Tom.

    May our thoughts, prayers and assistance go out to the entire family and friends as they grieve the loss of there son, husband, friend  and father.  Be safe as the winds of the world fill your sails and blow your hair and the roads of life take you along your journey, wherever they may lead.  Ride, live and love safe, while never forgetting to take chances and risks, for they are the spice and memories of life.


Indian Larry    August 30, 2004

    Larry Desmedt, a legendary custom motorcycle builder and stunt rider who went by the name Indian Larry, died on Aug. 30 of severe head injuries he sustained in an accident. He was 55.

    Indian Larry was performing one of his signature stunts last Saturday during the Liquid Steel Classic and Custom Bike Series in Concord, N.C. He was standing on the seat when suddenly the motorcycle began to wobble. Unable to maintain his balance, Indian Larry fell off the bike before it crashed. He was not wearing a helmet.

    Born in Cornwall-on-Hudson, N.Y., Indian Larry was a teenager when he bought his first motorbike, a 1939 Harley Knucklehead, for $200. He took it apart and spent the next nine months learning how to put it back together again. He later moved to California and apprenticed under hot rod builder Ed "Big Daddy" Roth.

    The tattoo-covered metal-sculptor and motorcycle mechanic launched the Brooklyn-based Gasoline Alley motorcycle workshop in 1991 and devoted the rest of his life to creating and riding "old school bikes." Several of his custom-built motorcycles won awards, including the "Grease Monkey," which was named Easy Rider magazine's Chopper of the Year.

    Indian Larry also performed stunts in movies ("Quiz Show," "200 Cigarettes") and on television. He was a featured artist on the Discovery Channel's "Biker Build-Off" series, and once rode a motorcycle through a wall of fire on "The Late Show With David Letterman."

    A memorial will be held at Gasoline Alley on Sept. 19. His autobiography, "Grease Monkey, The Life and Times of Motorcycle Artist Indian Larry," is scheduled for publication in 2006. Indian Larry is survived by his wife Bambi, the Mermaid of Coney Island.


BUT YOU DIDN'T SEE ME

 

I saw you; hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line.
But, you didn't see me; put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.

I saw you; pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk.
But, you didn't see me, playing Santa at the local mall.

I saw you; change your mind about going into the restaurant.
But, you didn't see me, attending a meeting to raise more money for the hurricane relief.

I saw you, roll up your window and shake your head when I drove by.
But, you didn't see me, driving behind you when you flicked your cigarette
butt out the car window.

I saw you, frown at me when I smiled at your children.
But, you didn't see me, when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.

I saw you, stare at my long hair.
But, you didn't see me, and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.

I saw you; roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves.
But, you didn't see me, and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those that had none.

I saw you; look in fright at my tattoos.
But, you didn't see me, cry as my children where born and have their name written over and in my heart.

I saw you, change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere.
But, you didn't see me, going home to be with my family.

I saw you, complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be.
But, you didn't see me, when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.

I saw you, yelling at your kids in the car.
But, you didn't see me; pat my child's hands, knowing he was safe behind me.

I saw you, reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road.
But, you didn't see me, squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.

I saw you, race down the road in the rain.
But, you didn't see me, get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.

I saw you; run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time.
But, you didn't see me, trying to turn right.

I saw you; cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in.
But, you didn't see me leave the road.

I saw you, waiting impatiently for my friends to pass.
But, you didn't see me. I wasn't there.

I saw you; go home to your family.
But, you didn't see me. Because, I died that day you cut me off.

I was just a biker,......
A person with friends and a family.


Taxi Ride

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One night I responded to a call to a house in the less-affluent part of town. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked." Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she asked. I took the suitcase to the cab, and then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated".

"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice".

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she softly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT 'YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, ~BUT~ THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.


This is Jacqueline Saburido on September 19, 1999.



This is her and her Father, 1998.


This is her on Vacation in Venezuela.


Birthday party as a child.



At a party with friends.



The car in which Jacqueline traveled.  She was hit by another car that was driven by a 17-year old male student on his way home after drinking a couple of hard packs with his friends. This was in December 1999.



After the accident Jacqueline has needed over 40 operations.


Jacqueline was caught in the burning car and her body was heavily burnt for approx. 45 SECONDS!



With her Father, 2000.



Getting treatment.



Three months after accident.



Without a left eyelid Jacquie needs eye drops to keep her vision.



Now 20 year old, he cannot forgive himself for driving drunk on that night three years ago.

He's aware of devastating Jacqueline Saburidos life.



Not everyone who gets hit with a car dies. This picture was taken 4 years after the accident and the doctors are still working on Jacqueline, whose body was covered with 60% severe burnings.

 

 

 

 

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